


i wish we'd met before (they'd convinced you life is war)

by idekman



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Daredevil Spoilers, F/M, I don't know, PTSD, Stabbing, fluff a little bit but not really ??, i am complete trash, idfk what this is, like this bounces between frank castle drinking frappucino and karen's hardcore existential angst, obviously, some descriptions of blood, trash, welcome to my trash boat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Did you pistol whip me in a wine shop the other day?’ Frank Castle asks her. He’s slurping a frappucino of his own through a straw. Loudly. Not wanting to look at his face, she risks a glance the drink’s way instead; there’s whipped cream in it. <i>Jesus Christ.</i></p><p>‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’  </p><p>- </p><p>Frank Castle and Karen Page keep on getting in each other's way. Neither of them really want to rectify the issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wish we'd met before (they'd convinced you life is war)

**Author's Note:**

> not 100% canon compliant cause i started this at around ep 10 so i wasn't 100% sure how it was gonna end and yeah. doesn't really effect the narrative tbh except for some timing points etc. and also some obvious stuff about matt.

It’s been a month since she’s heard anything from Matthew Murdock. 

Every so often, she’ll drop by Nelson and Murdock – but the sign is always flipped to _closed_. The heat doesn’t abate, and it feels as if time has stilled – as if Matt is still kissing her in amongst the hot summer’s rain, as if she’s still sat across a diner table from Frank Castle, his face smeared with bruises, she slick with her own sweat.

She and Foggy hang out from time to time. But it’s never the same. She drinks too much and Foggy doesn’t drink enough, and he usually ends up dragging her home whilst she chatters morosely. They need Matt to balance the two of them out. 

But one day Foggy calls her, serious, and says he’s going to take her out to lunch. It’s not a question. He sounds too severe for it to be a date, so she dresses plainly. Since the office shut she’s ditched the smart workwear – can’t see the point of it now. She wears all florals and light things, nice fabrics and pretty colours. Pure self-indulgence. She doesn’t miss the restrictive pencil skirts and heels she’s used to shoving herself into.

When she arrives, Foggy sits her down, and orders her a salmon and cream cheese bagel – her favourite – and tells her that Matthew Murdock is Daredevil, and four weeks ago he ran off into the night with a woman called Elektra.

Everything makes sense all at once. The only thing that _doesn’t_ make sense is how she didn’t figure it out before. All the bruises, the cuts, the days off because he fell down the stairs, and –

And.

And she can’t believe she’s been so _stupid._  

The voice – he had the same god damn _voice_. Didn’t even try to pretend. He’d spent so long trying to protect her – telling her that she can’t handle all the things life has thrown her way these past few months. As if he knows the cold weight of a gun in his hands. As if he knows the heaviness of watching the light blinker out of someone’s eyes, and that being something _you’ve_ done.

Foggy speaks, and she realises a moment after the movement that she’s slammed a steak knife into the table, about an inch from Foggy’s ring finger.

She stands with a word, knocking over her chair. She doesn’t apologise. She doesn’t eat her _fucking_ bagel. She leaves.

-

Ellison lets her hole up in Ben’s office. She pores over articles newspapers, dating back eight months or so. The more she reads about Daredevil – about _Matt_ – the more she wants to kick herself. It was so _obvious_. All the dates match up – times where Daredevil was on the news, the next day Matt would turn up bruised and battered. Something in her is sick with it all – because she didn’t see it. Maybe because she didn’t want to.

Within her searches, she digs up a few other correlating moments. A woman dies on the pier the same night the mayor is notably absent from a dinner. She digs deeper, finds he was taken to court on allegations of domestic abuse, but the case was thrown out, the wife paid off one hurried divorce later. She chases it up a little, but then passes the story on to Ellison – because she finds something wildly more interesting. 

A series of robberies have been occurring throughout New York. Small cases – independent, high class stores. They usually get a few lines way past front page. A few smaller chains. No one made the link that, within each one, the security footage was looped with the same fizzling glitch. She collects the cases – around ten. Seemingly no threat – no one was hurt, just money stole from the counter. But the way the buildings were broken into – no signs, no broken glass, no destroyed locks – was expert.

She goes to one of the stores – an independent diamond store that’s been going since the forties. Family-run. The husband makes her a cup of coffee whilst the wife explains that their safe was broken into, and the money they’d been saving for their daughter’s college tuition was stolen. The girl in question – waif-like thing, dark skin and big, brown eyes – wanders past, on the phone. She keeps half an ear out and hears things like _financial aid_ and _scholarships_ and –

Something in her burns.

She scopes out the surrounding area and finds a camera a few doors down. Council-owned, so of course it’s almost impossible to get a hold of the tapes. Eventually, she resorts to a Foggy method that’s been tried and tested; bribery.

She finally spots someone; big sweatshirt, baseball cap. Shuffling suspiciously on the tapes for just a moment – then finally breaking out into a jog, running right out of frame. And now she knows exactly who to look for on the rest of the tapes.

There’s no real pattern to the guy’s movements – he’s smart, clearly – but she starts scoping out the potential next hit.

She doesn’t want vengeance. She doesn’t want to turn him into the police. She just wants the Levy’s daughter to be able to go to college.

It takes a few weeks and a few false hits and a handful of missed calls from Foggy when she finally gets him. It’s a small boutique winery, with expensive bottles lining the wall and an elderly couple lining the place. She stakes out the building in her car, listening to the radio on a low background hum. Some dodgy eighties tune starts pumping out and she smiles, allows herself to sing along as the warmth makes her drowsy –

 

And she’s jerking awake, almost missing the crunch of metal and the beep of an alarm being swiftly silenced. She sees it a smudge of a baggy hoodie and her hand’s on the door handle.

 But there’s a figure stalking across the pavement just opposite and she sinks further down in her seat, adrenaline pumping. Whoever it is, they’re big, baseball cap pulled low over their eyes – and they’ve got an enormous gun slung over their shoulder. Fuck. 

 _Fuck_.

Her fingers are on the keys, about to start the ignition before she can really process the movement. She forces herself to stop. Shadows shift; the second shadowy figure joins the fray, heavy boots crunching over broken glass as they step inside. Her hands are back on the door handle again; she’s shaking. She leaves her handbag, but takes the keys and the gun from the glove compartment. The cool burn of metal against her hand is soothing.

Glad for the flat boots she’s wearing – heels have always been such a curse, crippling her at every turn – Karen slips across the road, making sure to keep out of the glow of street lamp.

By the time she finally pushes into the shop, the man is skulking round the counter – gun on his shoulder, way too close. Her mind is buzzing – idiot, _idiot_ , what the hell was she thinking? Who does she defend, who does she save? She realises, now, why Matt never made this choice.

Except the man crouched down by the safe hears something – a rustle, a footstep, a breath. Who knows. He turns, blue eyes flashing in the dark, and his face is familiar.

Christ. This asshole lives in her _building_. The single dad with three kids, landlord always pounding on his door, shouting about rent. His youngest daughter is five, always stares at Karen’s hair as her dad hustles her through the corridor. She’d watched the three of them once, ages ago, when he’d been unexpectedly called into work. He’d been kind, offered her money like a babysitter, made her a sandwich and checked in on his kids as they slept.

He looks scared and his eyes are wide and he’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

Someone’s reciting a poem. She recognises the words. Rolls her eyes.

Smacking the butt of her gun into the back of Frank Castle’s head, she watches him crumple to the floor with a little satisfaction. From the floor, her neighbour stares up at her, mouth open.

‘Are you here to kill me?’ He whispers.

‘No,’ she tells him shortly, then adds a _dumbass_ for good measure that has him blinking, affronted. ‘ _He_ was.’

There’s an awkward beat. Frank groans by her feet and rolls over – before he can move, she leans down and slams his head into the floor. He stops groaning.

‘Fuck, is that – is that the _Punisher_?’ The guy asks, scrabbling backwards, horrified. She’s wracking her name for his name – _Brian? Barry?_ – as he chokes out; ‘we have to call the police!’

She shoots him an unimpressed look.

‘You’re currently robbing a store,’ she deadpans. ‘And if it _were_ the Punisher, that would mean he thinks you’ve done something bad enough to deserve being murdered.’

‘I didn’t do nothing, ma’am, I swear – uh, Katie? Katie, isn’t it?’

‘Karen.’ She huffs out a sigh. ‘Look, it’s none of my business – just give the Levy’s their money back.’

‘What? Who?’

 ‘ _The Levy’s_. You stole their daughter’s college tuition.’

‘Right, I – yeah, sure –’

‘I’ll know, if you don’t. And I’ll come back. With the Punisher in tow, if you’re _really_ unlucky. Now help me drag him down to the next block. Barry, right?' 

‘Brett.’ 

‘Sure. Whatever. You take his arms, I take his legs. It’s gonna make my life really fucking miserable if I get him arrested.’

-

Three days later she’s wandering down the street when someone falls into step with her. She wonders, abruptly, if she can take a six-foot-whatever guy out with a Starbucks frappucino cup. Probably not. The straw might be able to do some damage to an eye, maybe.

‘Did you pistol whip me in a wine shop the other day?’ Frank Castle asks her. He’s slurping a frappucin of his own through a straw. Loudly. Not wanting to look at his face, she risks a glance the drink’s way instead; there’s whipped cream in it. _Jesus Christ_.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ 

A low chuckle emits from her side. She picks up the pace.

‘You did, didn’t you?’

‘Brett says hi, by the way. He very kindly helped me drag your ass to the next block,’ she snaps. She still hasn’t looked at him yet and she thinks it’s annoying him.

‘Oh, that was you two? Didn’t want me getting arrested, huh?’

‘You don’t seem like the right kind of person to piss off, Frank. Was there something else you wanted, or –’

He veers around her, dipping his head a little to look at her, and she’s finally face-to-face with him. She’d expected him to look better, but he’s still lined with bruises, black eyes ringed.

‘Do you _permanently_ look like you’ve just walked out of a bar fight?’ She snaps. She can’t help herself. Frank looks pissed – then his head tilts to one side and. Christ. Is that a _smile?_ It’s crooked and wonky on him, at odds with the purple and blues blossoming across the bridge of his nose, his split lip.

 ‘You should see the other guy.’

 ‘That other guy better not be Brett.’

 At this, Frank stiffens. He still manages to look vaguely intimidating, even as he chews absently at his straw. He sniffs, then squints across the street. She knows what it’s like, always checking your six, always looking out for the next target drawn on your back.

‘I wasn’t there to kill Brett. I ain’t got no beef with him –’

‘Well _that’s_ reassuring,’ she snaps. He directs his squint across at her now and she frowns uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot. ‘What did you want with him then?’ She demands, crossing her arms over her chest, jutting her chin a little. Frank swipes a hand over his nose and glances away, almost sheepish –

 She thinks Frank Castle might actually be _embarrassed_.

‘I’m friends with one of the jeweller’s stores he hit. He took a load of money for –’

‘Abbie’s college tuition,’ she interrupts, trying to ignore the dopey way Frank blinks at her in surprise. ‘Yeah. I know.’ She can feel her resolve weakening, but holding onto the suspicion and anger is easier so she presses; ‘And the gun?’

‘What about it?’

‘Why did you have a gun bigger than my fucking leg over your shoulder if you weren’t going to shoot someone with it?’

‘Just thought I’d… You know, rough him up a bit. Scare the shit outta him, and he’d take the money back.’

She raises an eyebrow, one hand on her hip. She’s not sure what to say now that he’s justified himself to her, now that she has no complaints left. The sun is beating down and she’s wearing flip flops and he’s wearing all-black and they’re both carrying Starbucks and it feels almost like they’re normal people.

Frank rattles his cup, the ice bouncing around the bottom and hitting noisily against the plastic.

‘I’m all out. You want another one?’

‘Jesus – _good bye,_ Frank.’ 

-

The next time she sees him is in London. She’d managed to get expenses to cover the cost of a ticket over on the basis that she was investigating a human interest piece. She isn’t. She’s _actually_ investigating a triple homicide.

Well. _Investigating_.

Investigating would imply she doesn’t know exactly who did it. _Investigating_ would imply she knew what she would do when she saw the guy. Investigating would imply that she doesn’t pick up a knife on the sly as soon as she gets into town. Investigating would imply that she doesn’t have vivid technicolour fantasies about stabbing the guy in the chest.

It’s not hard to find him; she picks him up on Regents Street. He’s a distinctive-looking man; bright blue hair, dark eyes. He had shot her neighbours as she’d slept next door. Two sisters and a younger friend sleeping on their couch. She’d woken up to the gunshots. By the time she’d called the police and an ambulance, it’d been too late.

Her stomach burns every time she thinks about it.

Once she works out where his address is, she hires a car and buys a pair of binoculars. Stakes out his house for a night, comes back the next evening for no other reason than she doesn’t know what to do with him.

On the third night, when she climbs into her car, Frank Castle’s there. She stabs him in the hand.

There’s a lot of screaming and apologising and blood on the hire car interior which’ll be pretty hard to wash out and then Frank Castle is _pulling a fucking blade out of his hand_ and swearing more than she ever thought humanly possible.

‘What the _fuck_ , Karen?’

‘Sorry, god, sorry – _shit,_ should I call an ambulance, or –’

Frank holds up his hand, effectively silencing her as he studies it.

‘Nah,’ he tells her, with a shrug. ‘It’ll be alright.’

She stares at him, trying to make out his expression in the dim light of the car. He flexes his fingers and winces, then uses his good hand to fiddle with her radio, trying to tune between two stations. One’s playing ABBA. It appears to be the one he’s going for. She smacks at his fingers.

‘ _Ow –_ ’

‘Frank! You have a _hole_ in your _hand._ You need stitches! I’m taking you to a hospital!’ She’s already starting the engine, even as he grabs the wheel.

‘ _No_ ,’ he snaps. ‘No hospitals.’

For a moment his eyes are so dark and he looks so sad that something in her crumbles – but then she glances down at his hand and there’s a lot more blood than she was expecting and it’s sort of _everywhere_ and some of it on her leg and wow, okay, that is _a lot_ of blood and –

 

She wakes up, groggy, as Frank stills the engine. She’s not sure when she got in the passenger seat, and she has absolutely no clue how Frank managed to drive here with a _hole_ in his god damn _hand._

‘Where are we?’ She mumbles, glancing outside. Something brightens as she spots someone being wheeled along on a stretcher, an ambulance pulling to an abrupt stop close by.

‘Oh, good. You decided to come to the hospital,’ she smiles, leans over him to open the driver’s door. ‘You wanna jump out? I have stuff to do.’

Frank glances at her as if he’s not quite sure if she’s joking or not. Then he slams his door shut

‘I brought _you_ to the hospital,’ he grunts, leaning over and opening the passenger side door. She gets the sense that they could be doing this dance all night. For a moment, she has a face full of Frank Castle’s leather jacket. It smells faintly of whiskey, gun oil and burnt matches, because Frank Castle is ridiculous. Then the door swings open and he’s back in his own seat, hand clamped suspiciously tightly around the driver’s wheel. His knuckles are white. ‘You saw all the blood and passed out. Smacked your head against the steering wheel.’ He pauses, head cocked to one side. ‘It was kinda funny, actually. But you’ve probably got concussion. So.’ He jerks his head to the hospital doors. ‘Jump out.’

She leans over, ignoring the rush of head spin as she goes, and pulls her door closed.

‘No. Absolutely _not_. Are you aware of how ridiculous you’re being?’

‘ _I’m_ being ridiculous? Do you know how dangerous concussion is?’

‘More dangerous than being _stabbed?’_

‘It’s just a surface wound –’

‘Don’t pull that shit Frank, that knife went _all_ the way through –’

‘I can sort it myself. You ever tried to check yourself for concussion – ’

‘ _Sort it yourself?_ What, you got an emergency first aid kit shoved up your –’

A loud knock on the window has the pair starting guiltily out of their argument. When they turn, a paramedic is glaring angrily inside. Reluctantly, Frank winds the window down.

‘Can I help you two?’ The woman snaps, hands on her hips. Frank pulls the rim of his baseball cap a little lower over his face, grumbling;

‘Nah, thank you, ma’am.’

There’s a long, awkward silence. The paramedic sort of looks like she’s ready to run someone over with an ambulance. 

‘ _You’re stopped in an ambulance space,’_ she eventually snaps. Her gaze flickers between the pair of them – sees the blood, and the bruise on Karen’s face, and sighs. ‘Park your damn car, then come inside. _Both of you._ A &E is down the corridor and to your left.’

Silently, Frank rolls the window up and finds a spot close by. When the engine shuts off again, for a moment neither of them move. Then, finally, Karen pipes up;

‘It’s the NHS on a Friday night. What’s the worse that could happen?’

 -

Karen has lots of regrets, but dragging Frank to a public accident and emergency waiting room late on a Friday night is quite possibly her third greatest. Her second greatest is telling him that it would be fine. A young woman has just spilled a hot cup of coffee in his lap. He levels a glare across at her. Her first greatest regret is laughing.

Flicking through a magazine that has a good percentage of the pages missing, she remarks casually;

‘Is this enough precedence for you to hunt me down and murder me later in life? Because I would really appreciate some warning on that. And also the chance to remind you that this is for your own good.’

‘Three hours. _Three hours_. This is ridiculous.’

‘This is public health care.’

That, at least, has Frank perking up.

‘So this is free?’

‘Yep. That’s why the coffee tastes like shit. How’s your hand?’

‘ _Fine_ ,’ Frank grits out. ‘Just like it was _fine_ three _hours ago_ , when we first arrived.’ A small child rushes past and treads on his feet as they go. Karen pretends not to note the flash of fondness that rushes across Frank’s face as the child barrels into their parent’s knees. It quickly dissipates when said child starts screaming at the top of their lungs. ‘This is _bullshit_ , Page.’

She observes him for a moment, retreating almost as soon as his eyes flicker to meet hers. It doesn’t take long for a plan to formulate.

‘I think I can do something to move this a long a little, but for god’s sake go clear yourself up first,’ she tells him with a sigh, indicating to the hot coffee soaking into his jeans, watching as he stands.

He gets about a step away before she kicks him just right in the back of the knee. Dramatically, he’s sent sprawling to the floor.

‘What the _fuck_ –’

‘Oh my god!’ She shrieks, making sure the sense of melodrama cuts across the entire emergency room. A nurse rushes over as she goes to Frank’s side, shoving a hand on his shoulder to keep him down for another few moments. ‘He just collapsed!’ She breathes out, making sure to blink some tears into her eyes for good effect. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong – I think he lost some blood –’

‘Alright – can I get some help over here?’ The nurse calls out, thankfully not noting the vitriolic glare Frank sends over his shoulder as a second nurse rushes over, helping him to his feet. He shrugs the woman off – gently, Karen notes, but no less irritably – but follows as they guide him through a doorway. She hovers, for a moment, but the nurse turns, narrows her eyes at the bruise on her forehead, then tells her; ‘if you’d like to come along too.’

She nods, triumph thrilling in her stomach as she follows a little behind.

The A&E ward is loud – maybe louder than the waiting room – and Frank looks small, perched on the end of a bed, watching the nurses and doctors drift along. The nurse pops her down on the bed next to Frank’s and tells her she’ll be back in a minute.

There’s a scowl there when he looks up at her. But then he spots something on her face – maybe the wooziness or the way a hand flutters to her forehead, wincing as her fingertips make contact with the bruise plastered across her forehead – and softens almost imperceptibly.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine. What’d they say, about the hand?’

‘Nothing yet. You got concussion?’

‘I guess we’ll find out.’

The pair sit in silence as the nurses buzz around them, someone eventually coming to do some checks. A doctor recommends that Frank books into some physical therapy back in the US for his hand, a suggestion Karen is pretty sure is disregarded almost immediately. A nurse informs Karen that, yes, she _does_ have a concussion – and Frank shoots her a far too self-satisfied look over the woman’s shoulder.

‘We’ll have to keep you in observation over-night,’ the nurse frowns. Karen looks around the busy ward, thinks about the bustling waiting room. Guilt, ready and waiting, settles in her chest. ‘Unless you have a friend back home? They’ll have to wake you up every two hours or so.’

‘Yeah,’ she smiles, ‘my sister’s back at my hotel, she can help out.’

‘Perfect!’ The nurse smiles, turning away as someone’s wheeled in on a stretcher. ‘I’ll just get discharge papers for the both of you –’ She’s already half-way across the ward, shouting drug orders over her shoulder. Karen supposes she won’t be back for a little while.

‘Didn’t know you got a sister,’ Frank remarks.

‘I don’t,’ Karen snaps. ‘I’ll be fine, I can… Set alarms on my phone. Or something.’ She stands, plucks up her handbag from the floor and wills herself not to sway as a roll of nausea overcomes her.

‘Or something?’ Frank repeats, discerning. And then; ‘Are you leaving?’

‘Could be hours, waiting for that paperwork. It doesn’t matter.’

Frank’s halfway up as she turns to leave, long, loping strides catching up with her easily.

‘You can’t drive in your condition –’

‘Jesus, Frank, I’m not pregnant. It’s a ten minute drive –’

‘I’m driving,’ he states, snatching the keys out of her hand as the exit the ward at a swift half-run. She snatches the keys right back.

‘No you’re not.’

‘…I’ll supervise.’

She resists the urge to grit her teeth – but Frank’s looking at her like he’s about to punch something, possibly the coffee machine, and she finally acquiesces.

‘You can sit in the back. And I’m picking the music.’

He laughs, a low chuckle.

‘You’re funny.’

- 

‘You thought I was joking, didn’t you?’

Frank, sat in the back seat, sends her a glare in the mirror. She smiles back, false and cheery, as she twiddles with the radio, flicking between Beyonce and Talyor Swift and eventually settling on good old Taylor, the option she’s certain will irritate Frank the most. She has no doubt in her mind that Frank Castle, deep down, no matter how many people he’s murdered, is a Beyonce fan just like everyone else.

‘Yeah, no kidding,’ he grumbles. He kicks through the various wrappers littering the floor behind the passenger seat. ‘You always treat your car like a piece of shit?’

‘Put your seat belt on,’ she orders. Then; ‘I’ve been on stake outs.’ Keeping half an eye on the road as she reaches over to the glove compartment and wrestles out half a burger in a wrapper. It’s a little cold, but she’s starving. Lettuce drips down onto her lap and she catches Frank’s glare in the mirror again. ‘Want some?’

‘You’re gross, you know that?’

She goes to close the glove compartment and swerves a little, earning a beep from a fellow driver.

‘Fuck you, asshole!’ She shouts through a mouthful of burger, slamming a hand down on the horn a few times for good measure, then hanging an abrupt left as she almost misses her turning.

‘You’re a shitty driver,’ Frank points out uselessly as she, for a moment, forgets which lane she should be in.

‘Actually, I’m a fantastic driver,’ she tells him. It’s true. ‘I just have concussion.’

‘Jesus _Christ!_ ’ Frank explodes from the back seat. ‘This is why _I_ should be –’

She pulls the car to an abrupt stop, getting some small satisfaction when Frank’s forehead bops against the padded head rest of the seat in front. 

‘We’re here,’ she trills. ‘Do you want me to drop you off somewhere –’

‘ _No_ ,’ Frank snaps. ‘Enjoy London. Try not to stab anyone else while you’re here.’

He doesn’t catch the guilty start she gives as he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him. She watches him go for a moment, half expecting him to sink dramatically into the shadows – rather than pausing, then getting out his phone to consult google maps. Rolling her eyes, she jumps out of the car and heads towards the shitty Travelodge she’s been staying in.

‘Night, Frank,’ she calls over her shoulder.

‘G’night, Page.’

She forces the smile off her face. She likes it when he calls her that. _Page_. Feels like a mark of respect. 

-

She doesn’t feel quite so respected two hours later when there’s a knock on her door. She feels awful – groggy and head ache-y and essentially like she’s about to die. And whoever’s knocking won’t _shut up_.

‘Go away!’ She calls out.

‘Page? It’s me. You still alive?’         

_Frank._

‘Yes. Fuck off!’

‘I’m gonna come in.’

She grumbles, loudly, and when the metal lock makes a suspicious crunching noise, it turns into a groan.

‘I’m gonna have to pay for that, you know,’ she tells him. Or, more, mumbles directly into her pillow. Frank clicks a light on and she finally turns over, faintly aware that she’s wearing a threadbare t-shirt and not much else but her head is throbbing and she just wants to _sleep_ , so she doesn’t really care at this point. ‘For fuck’s sake – turn that _off_!’ She complains, grabbing a pillow and throwing it blindly. Somehow, it catches Frank directly in the face and she allows herself a laugh before shoving her face back into her pillow. ‘What do you want?’

‘The nurse said you had to be woken up every two hours,’ Frank tells her sternly, settling into a small desk chair with a heavy thud. She raises her head to shoot him an unimpressed look, maintaining eye contact until he relents, almost sheepishly; ‘Also I got kicked outta my hotel room. The staff didn’t take too kindly to all the… You know. Blood.’

‘Did you tear your stitches?’ She asks, risking a glance to the bedside table clock. Numbers blink back at her; three a.m. _Fuck_.

‘No – it was blood from another. Um. Thing.’

‘Ah. Of course. The other thing with all the blood. Yours or someone else’s?’

‘Mine.’

‘Good. Then I’m going back to sleep.’

She can’t see Frank rolling his eyes, but she can sense it. There’s an awkward moment of silence as she shifts the covers – then raises her head again.

‘If you’re gonna stay here can you at least turn the light off?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

-

She wakes up to Frank kicking her leg. She wrestles with the sheets for a moment, successfully snatches Frank’s foot, punches it once (less successfully), then turns over.

‘I’ve been googlin’ concussion,’ he tells her matter-of-factly.

‘Fantastic.’

‘Says you should keep hydrated.’ He passes her a mug and she hums gratefully, sitting up against the pillows.

‘Coffee?’

‘Tea.’

She makes a face. Frank swipes a hand over his mouth. She thinks he’s covering a laugh. The tea isn’t all bad – sweet, and fragrant, not the usual builders she tried in a café last time she’d come to England. That had been bitter; this is almost fruity. Not bad.

Still.

‘Tea? Is this some sort of revenge stunt? I stabbed you _one time_ –’

‘You’re in England,’ Frank cuts in, almost a growl. He looks tired. ‘Drink your tea.’

She does. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t watch her, doesn’t really look at her – he’s cleaning her knife, actually. He swipes off the dried blood in neat, methodical movements. It’s almost a sweet gesture, until she remembers how many times he must have done this before, cleaning blood out of his clothes, off weapons, out from under his fingernails, washing it out of his hair –

A shudder tiptoes out of her spine before she can really stop it. Frank glances up almost immediately.

‘You cold?’  

‘No, I –’ she can’t stop staring at the knife in his hands. He doesn’t seem to notice, dipping his rag in a bowl of water. In the dim light, it looks black, like oil. ‘I’m fine,’ she murmurs, burrowing down under the covers once again. She hears the clink of the knife being put down and some of the tension in her shoulders unravels.

- 

She’s running through a forest. There’s a gun in her hands and its weighing her down, pulling her further into the soft ground with every step she takes. The ground turns mulchy and warm, mud sinking between her toes – but when she glances down she realises it’s blood, wrapping round her ankles. Her hands are dripping with it. The gun is replaced by a knife, cutting into the soft flesh of her palm. A shadow hulks behind a tree – could be Fisk. Could be Wesley. Could be Frank. The blood is up to her knees now, then her rib cage, then her throat until she’s drowning in it, until it consumes her –

‘Page?’

There’s a rough hand shaking her shoulder and she swings a punch that doesn’t connect, leaving her lurching, disorientated. There’s a hand grabbing her wrist and she’s faintly aware she’s screaming and –

Frank is blinking down at her. Dim, orange light spills across his face, turning the hard lines and bruises gentle for a second.

‘Page,’ he mutters, quickly dropping her wrist. She can’t help the way she recoils away from him, seeing the shifting shadow from her dream in the dark corners of the room, hands scrabbling against the head board in her urge to get away from his hulking presence. Frank’s head dips, immediately putting a good metre’s distance between the two of them. ‘You were screaming.’

‘Nightmare,’ she snaps back. The sheets are twisted around her, suffocating her, but she doesn’t want to kick them off, abruptly doesn’t want Frank seeing the vulnerability of her pale legs, her sharp elbows, when earlier she couldn’t give a shit. The moment – him leant over the bed, dark eyes frowning down at her, something like concern writ across his face – is too intimate, too close, and suddenly she can’t breathe even with how far away he is. ‘Go away, Frank.’

‘Page –’

‘Get out. Leave me alone.’

She turns her back to him, pulls the covers over her head, leans into the sense of suffocation and heavy, lingering heat. She doesn’t hear him leave before she drops back to sleep. 

-

The next time, she wakes up before Frank does. Still here, then. Early morning light spills in through the curtains, turning everything grey and soft. Frank is still in the armchair, fast asleep, neck cricked uncomfortably.

She slips out of bed, crouches down so they’re eye-to-eye. For a moment, she tries to take in every weathered line, reaches out a hand and traces all the bruises, fingertip a bare few millimetres from his skin. Scanning the wrinkles and the cuts and the scars, she looks. Tries to figure out if she can see herself in Frank Castle’s battered, blood-stained face.

She just sees Frank, dozing, emitting snuffling, small breaths every now and then.

She takes the suitcase and the car keys. She drives to the airport, and she gets the next flight home.

She leaves the knife. She dreams Frank Castle is standing over her bed, gun trained to her forehead. _Frank Castle kills murderers_ , she tells herself.

But she left the knife, and she left the murderer. When she gets home, she calls Brett and gives him the man’s address. An arrest is made a few days later.

 _She left the knife_. That’s what matters. No matter how many time she takes out the scan of Frank’s x-ray, studies the hollow sockets and the heavy skull, she left the knife behind. She didn’t kill anyone.

She looks in the mirror, sees red-rimmed eyes and dark shadows, printed almost like bruises, under her sockets, and she doesn’t see a hero. But she doesn’t see Frank Castle there either.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is ridiculous i have no idea what i just wrote there'll probs be more  
> i wrote this listening almost exclusively to heathers (oops) so yeah that explains the title also a frank castle & karen page 80s high school au would basically be the entire plot to heathers (sobs)  
> come cry w me on tumblr: whambamsebastianstan


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